


Little Shop (Little Shop of Flowers)

by witkneec



Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: F/F, Flowers, Gail and Holly - Freeform, and that holly totally needed to chase her a little and tell lisa to shove it, but i like it, i always thought that gail got a rough break, i didn't really follow it i don't think but i think she will forgive me maybe, i just want them to be happy and in love and like idiots for each other, i wish i knew how to quit you, oh right this was also a prompt: drop it offficer, okay?, so so so so gay, the title is a musical theatre reference and it's so gay you guys, they are so attractive it hurts, this is so weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8475574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witkneec/pseuds/witkneec
Summary: "A moment as you revel in the scent before you open them, a smile of surprise fixed on your lips, your nimble fingers plucking the large card up that is perched on a plastic stand buried in the soil beside the plant. You begin to read the sloppy words scrawled inside the fold there, your heart picking up its speed at the words you can only just barely process. They say:
Dear Miss Stewart,
	So, this really hot woman (like really, really ridiculously hot- like, woah hot) came in today. She told me she needed flowers, proceeded to veto the various options I offered and refused to talk about why she really needed them, what they were for, etc. ..."
Or:
Gail is a coward, Lisa is a bitch (and deserves a good kick to the tits) and Holly does something about it. Guest starring flowers and some pretty neat florists. Yeah, that's a thing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Drop it, officer.
> 
> This is three weeks post bar incident. My reimagining of their reunion before Holly decided to start dating ( I hate that btw. like can't even think about it i get so mad hate it). I'm a bit tipsy so please mind the mistakes and drop me a line and let me know what you think. I'm a little weirded out by this bc it didn't dissolve into straight up smut so reall,y let me know. 
> 
> P.S. I'm really trying to tie up loose ends with all of my Gail and Holly fics and I'm currently working on a sort of FRIENDS compliation starrring these two as well ("you got off the plane, viva las vegas, the kathy/ chandler scene [ I forgot my purse]" being the ones that are currently gelling) so stay turned for that, sports fans.
> 
> I don't think I will ever stop loving these two. Ugh.

The flowers are beautiful, you think, your nose going to automatically sniff at them, your eyes falling shut at the sharp but sweet smell.  
A moment as you revel in the scent before you open them, a smile of surprise fixed on your lips, your nimble fingers plucking the large card up that is perched on a plastic stand buried in the soil beside the plant. You begin to read the sloppy words scrawled inside the fold there, your heart picking up its speed at the words you can only just barely process. They say:

Dear Miss Stewart,

So, this really hot woman (like really, really ridiculously hot- like, woah hot) came in today. She told me she needed flowers, proceeded to veto the various options I offered and refused to talk about why she really needed them, what they were for, etc. Anyway, eventually, we settled on Stargazers because they mean devotion and wonder, and we got all the way up to the register but then she got to the card and she faltered a little bit and told me she didn’t know what to write on it and so I asked her what she needed to say and, well, what happened with you guys just sort of came spilling out her mouth. And I don’t usually take then time to listen to sob stories (and believe me, being a florist, I get them a lot) but hell, she was really hot and also I get the feeling she doesn’t really do that, like, at all- so I listened and, well, my heart hurt a little bit. Because she was so beautiful and earnest and right in front of me and I wanted to, like, ask her to marry me and have my babies but I couldn’t because she was telling me how in love she was with someone else. How stupid she felt and how badly she wanted to make things better with you. How she didn’t know how. 

I mean- holy shit is she snarky and cranky but the way she said your name, the way she talked about you… It was sort of glorious (but also sort of depressing because hi, I have eyes and she was single but not, you know?) and at first , me and my co-worker were kind of offended by how brash she actually was but then we decided later that she was probably cranky, probably tired and sad because she didn’t have you. And anyway, the reason I’m telling you all of this is because she told us last minute that she didn’t want us to give them to you, just threw way too much money at us and told us to forget it and I talked to my manager and well, she said that since we had your address and her money that we had to go ahead and deliver and so- here they are. More than anything, I just thought you deserved, Doctor Holly, to know that this hot blonde mystery lady someone loves you and her eyes go all soft when she talked about you and I’m pretty sure she’s not the kind of person who does soft anything. Anyway, have a good day and I wish you the best of luck.  
P.S. Blonde lady is cranky and said she was a bitch that night but it sounds like the one who should win bitch of the century is that boob doctor friend of yours. Just saying.

-Cameron at The Little Shop

You read the words with escalating joy and confusion, finish the note, and then read it again. 

Gail had been to this florist the other day, trying to buy you flowers, trying to find a way to make things right with you.  
All of the phone calls that had gone unanswered over the past couple of weeks, the texts. You’d tried to contact her to no avail, your heart plummeting with every loud beep of her voice mail, every long stretch of silence you’d had to endure after you sent a message. The woman you were beginning to see growing old with, she wouldn’t talk to you. Wouldn’t give you the chance to explain and apologize and grovel and tell her that you didn’t believe what your asshole of a friend said. But she didn’t and now-  
You were trying to move on. In fact, you had a date set up tonight with a woman Lisa had introduced you to. A doctor- a pediatric surgeon if memory served you right- named Julie who was pretty and nice and straight forward. That’s really who you thought the flowers had been from- she seemed like the type. But now- now you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut and the feelings you had been trying to suppress are now raging in you full force, your heart picking up speed and betraying your sensible brain with excitement at the possibilities. 

Because you’re trying to fight it but you know- you know you’re in love with her. As much as you haven’t wanted to be the last couple of weeks, as much as that makes you angry and makes you want to rage and scream, you know you are and if she’s still in it, you don’t want to fight it. You just want her. 

And now you have someone- Cameron at the Little Shop?- telling you that Gail fucking Peck spilled her guts out to total strangers and expressed regret over your parting and that she said- she said she was in love with you, too.  
You check the time on your phone before typing the name of the flower shop in the search bar of your internet browser, viewing the hours of operation and sighing in relief when you see that they are currently open. You grab your coat, tie an errant lace on your shoe, and palm your keys and then you’re out, in your car, and listening to the monotone of your GPS as it navigates you to your destination.  
You reach the shop well before the estimated arrival time and take a deep breath before parking, opening the door, and striding into the quaint shop, a jangling bell sounding when the door swings behind you.

You look around the small area inside, big bay window spilling light onto the various batches of flowers strewn around the room in large plastic buckets. You’re leaning over to smell a yellow daffodil when a bright voice interrupts your distraction.

“Hi, there. Can I help you?”

The voice is attached to a pretty face, green eyes focused on you, with a wide smile. 

You smile in return, striding up to the small counter.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. I was just- I just- well… I mean, I’m Holly Stewart.”

The eyes of the woman in front of you widen in recognition after a few seconds. A long silence and then that smile is back and she’s shouting over her shoulder.

“Beverly!”

You jump at the sudden sharp sound.

“Beverly, come quick! Dr. Holly is here!”

A rustling in the back, heavy footsteps, and then the appearance of another woman- this one decidedly much older, grey hair up in a bun- who is wiping dirt off on her already stained apron. She looks at the cashier with a furrowed, her mouth open in question before the cashier is talking once more.

“Dr. Holly Stewart. The woman that that blonde lady-“

“Ohoooh. The mean, pretty one? The one you were crying about wanting to marry?”

The older woman’s voice is teasing and warm.

“That’s the one! This is- this is her!”

And then both of those sets of eyes are trained on you and you can’t help but feel a little uneasy underneath the stares. You awkwardly raise your hand and wave at her.

“Hi.”

And that seems to set them off because suddenly the cashier, the woman you’ve surmised is Cameron, talking excitedly to her about Gail and the way she looked when she talked about you and about how seeing you makes her kind of angry because how is she supposed to find anyone if all of the hot ones are like hooking up with each other and you can’t help but think that yeah, this woman is a little much, but also kind of funny and maybe responsible for your reunion with Gail so you find yourself liking her in spite of all of it.

And Mrs. Needleman is very sweet, pushing a warm cup of tea in your hand and asking you to have a seat. 

You choose to stand but sip politely at the tea. That is until that sweet old voice is breaking into Cameron’s gushing words.

“So, what are you going to do about it, dear?”

The tea burns your tongue and makes you sputter.

The “what?” you sputter out makes her face brighter, her wrinkled eyes crinkle in amusement.

“This- this woman-“

“Gail. Her name is-“

“Gail. She loves you. And- what are you going to do about it?”

You shake your head, all of a sudden confused as to how you’ve gotten into all of this, how you’ve come to being interrogated by an octogenarian stranger about your relationship with a woman she didn’t even know.

But Mrs. Needleman is nice and makes you feel at ease and the tears that come to your eyes at her gentle prodding come even though you will them not to.

“I don’t- I don’t know. I mean, I’ve tried to call. I’ve tried to text. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

And that- that draws a chuckle out of Cameron and the old woman, her calloused hand coming out to pat you gently on the shoulder.

“Oh, honey. I was here. She was desperate to talk to you. Just didn’t know how. Actually said she was surprised you hadn’t bombarded her at work. But- but she said-“

And then Cameron takes over.

“She said that she’s not really good enough for you anyway so it was probably for the best. That’s when she bolted. Gave me like a ninety percent tip. Tell her thank you when you see her by the way.”

And those words- those words make you clench your eyes and teeth and fists and make the tears slip out of your eyes. Because that- it cuts you deep and fills your chest with a dull aching pain but also an anger you can’t quite place. After a moment, you realize it’s with yourself, with Lisa, with Gail. With this whole damn mess of a situation.

But Mrs. Needleman is just handing you a kleenex and letting you wipe your eyes with it and patting you soothingly on the shoulder.  
“Now, now,” she’s saying, slipping the soiled apron off of her neck, “no need for tears. You just need to figure it out- just need to ask yourself- if you love her. If she’s worth it.”

You’re nodding but your shoulders are hunched and your head bowed.

But a wrinkled hand is cupping your chin and pulling your eyes to meet hers.

“But Doctor Holly,. Something tells me that she is.”

And you’re nodding, wiping your red rimmed eyes and you can see out of the corner of your eyes that Cameron is too, her hands gripping the fabric of her own apron over her heart.

“Yep,” Cameron’s saying, her mouth twisted into a wistful smile, “and hey, if you guys don’t work out? I’ll gladly take up in your absence. Or hers. I like blondes and brunettes. I’m not picky.”

That makes you laugh, finally, the action lightening the tightness you feel in your chest.

It’s reflected upon Mrs. Needleman’s face who pats you once more before you pushing you tawrd the flowers with a gentle shove.

“Now that we’ve got that all figured out, pick out some flowers, free of charge of course, whatever you like, and go find that lady of yours. Tell her she’s special, tell her you love her.”

You’re nodding and grabbing bunches of flowers with shaking hands, too befuddled and suddenly so nervous to even begin to refuse  
her offer.

You’re at the counter and letting Cameron wrap the random assortment in butcher paper before you know it, watching the woman work quietly.

“Yeah, what she said,” the cashier is saying, her hands wrapping ribbon at the base,” and just my two sense, Dr. Stewart?”

You cock an eyebrow in question, signaling her to proceed.

“Your friend Lisa? Deserves a good fucking kick in the tits.”

Your eyes wuden at her words and you look over at Mrs. Needleman in alarm. The old woman is tutting at the language but shrugging just the same.

“Her words are crass but she does not lie, dear.”

You nod at that as well. Because no, she’s not wrong.

“After all, the ones who love us- really love us- are the ones who want us to be happy, regardless of what they want for you. That’s what my wife used to say, anyway.”

The words- choked and tight come out before you can even register them.

“Your- your wife?”

“Yes. Fran. We were together- uh- 40 years? We owned this place together and then- well, we all go at some point or another. I will too one day. Then I’ll see her again.”

The old woman’s face is wistful, the smile on her face fond. It makes you ache. You go to apologize but she cuts you off.

“Your Gail- she reminds me of Fran. I think- I think that’s why I sort of care about how all this ends up. Fran didn’t know how to talk to me either. We- it took a long time for her to trust me enough not to run. But when she did and when she finally- well. I’d take another 40.”

And goddammit the tears are back but this time you’re not frustrated, just sad but also hopeful for your possible future with Gail. With the woman who you needed to seek out and confront and confess to. 

So with a hug that was probably a little too tight and a kiss to her cheek, you’re sprinting out the door with a thrown together bouquet and a sense of promise bright in your chest.

You only hear a squeal behind you- Cameron, you assume- and the words, “you should totally let us do the flowers for the wedding!” before you’re walking swiftly to the car, laying down the flowers with care on the seat, pulling on your seatbelt and peeling out of the parking lot.

The ride to the preceint is spent going over the words you want to say, need to say, to her. You try to string together sentences full of longing and desire and affection, but by the time you reach the 15th, you can do little but act on instinct, almost forgetting the flowers in your haste to get out into the parking garage.

You flash your badge at the desk and only take a moment to glance at Chris’ startled face whose eyes are flitting between you and the plants with every widening eyes, with an every softening small smile.

He tears his eyes back to his computer, buzzing you through the doors they installed after the Ford incident for security. You’re already passing through the steel when you hear his voice behind you.

“She’s at her desk. Has lunch for another 20.”

The thank you you throw back is rushed and almost too quiet for him to hear because you’re powerwalking around the corner into the main lobby and Jesus Christ- then you see her. She’s sitting in her rollie chair and crunching away at a bag of chips and scowling at her computer as she types.

And you’re struck by how beautiful she is, even her frustration, and though you’re still a little pissed at her, yeah, it doesn’t compare to the relief and excitement you feel at seeing her beautiful face for the first time in twenty two days. Your heart is thundering in your ears and your mouth is dry but you’re also so drawn to her and before you know it- before you know it, you’re marching to her desk and doing your best to ignore the open mouths of the her fellow officers as they take you and your large bouquet in. But Gail- Gail is still typing and scowling and munching away and when you do reach her desk, it’s all you can do to sputter out a breathless and stilted 

“Hey,”, your eyes locked on her face, your tongue coming out to dart over your dry lips.

Her head whips toward you, her eyes wide as they take you in. She sputters out your name, standing quickly, her back ramrod straight. 

The sudden action causes her knees to knock against the desk and she curses, first at the pain, and then at the sudden wetness of the soda she had been drinking, now spilled onto the desk and dripping onto her shoes and the floor. You go to apologize but she doesn’t pay attention to the spill for long, her eyes snapping back to yours. 

You watch as they begin to cloud, watch as she begins to slip her guise into place. But you know this woman and you can’t help but notice the trembling of her fingers, the slight shake of her bottom lip as she regards you. When she speaks, it’s quiet and even, her tone not betraying any emotion she held.

“Holly- what- what are you doing here?”

And you duck your head for a moment, trying to get your bearings, before you meet her eyes once more.

“I- I uh- well, first of all, these are- for you-“

You thrust the flowers awkwardly out in front of you, your arms shaking with the weight of them as they stick out in the air. Wide eyes and an open mouth greet you before she is taking the flowers with her own stilted and jutting and awkward arms, running her fingers over the flowers in what you assume is an unconscious motion.

“- because I could only think that I should return the favor.”

That snaps her eyes- wide, glassy- back to yours and the choked “what?” would be comical in any other situation but here, it sort of breaks your heart a little. 

“Yeah- I, uh-“

You stare into the blue orbs for a moment, lost in silence, the words lost upon your tongue, when a voice clears from behind you. 

You turn, slightly irritated, until you see who it is. You grimace as realty crashes back down upon you and you realize where you are.

But Oliver Shaw isn’t angry- if anything, he smiles wider when your eyes lock with his.

“Dr. Stewart! Long time no see? What do we owe the favor? Courier sick again? Flower… Courier, perhaps?”

You blush but you chuckle just the same.

“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t really think before I- I had a day off and there was- I needed to- I just. I’m sorry, Officer Shaw, I’ll just-“  
But the man is laughing and shaking his head, breaking your eyes contact to focus on the woman who is still gaping behind you.

“You came to talk to the Peckling, aye? Please, don’t apologize. She’s been a downright grump the last couple of weeks and actually, coincidentally, believe me-“

His smile twists into something sweet but with a hint of impishness.

“ I was just coming down here to offer Peck the next couple of days off. You see, she’s been working so much lately and I just thought- well, that she needed a break. So, really- you couldn’t have picked a better time.”

You can’t help yourself when you laugh at the sound Gail makes- choked and surprised.

“What? Ollie- no, I- I can’t. I’ve got the Richardson case and I’ve got to walk this to evidence-“  
Gail picks up a manilla envelope, gesturing at its contents. Oliver simply tuts and shakes his head.

“Drop it, officer. You know the rules. Chain of custody and all that. I’ll have Price walk it down.”

“But Ollie-“

He cuts her off with a wink and a nudge.

“I mean it. I don’t want to see your mug for two days. Take a break. Go see a movie. Relax. Got it?”

She goes to protest but he silences her with a look.

You watch as she sags a little, reluctantly nodding her head. 

Oliver squeezes your shoulder lightly as he goes.

And then it’s just you and Gail, whose eyes have now focused back on yours. Whose hands now fiddle nervously, the flowers placed neatly on her desk.

“Hey,” you find yourself saying again.

A small smile as she looks at you, her eyebrow raised.

“You said that already,” is her soft reply.

“Yeah, well. Sounded familiar.”

That draws a laugh out of her beautiful mouth. It’s small and pained but it’s there and it makes you smile in a way you haven’t for weeks.

The silence that grows around you both is too much and you break eye contact to look beyond her, startled when you see half the precinct’s own gaze upon you. You feel exposed and suddenly uncomfortable so without thinking, you grab her hand, trying to ignore the jolt it sends down your spine. You find an interrogation room ( no, the irony is not lost upon you but fuck. it.), amidst the stares, and slip into it, your mind blank except for the thought of how much you’ve missed the warmth of her in your palm.

The minute the door clicks shut, you spin around and meet her confused and bewildered eyes.

The words start spilling out of your mouth before you can even control them.

“I- I got your flowers. The ones, I guess, you didn’t really mean to send. I got them. And a note.”

Her eyes, as wide as you’d ever seen them before, grow ever wider and she sputters breath out of her gaping lips.

“I- what- what are you talking about? I didn’t-“

“You did and I got this note telling me all about your trip. From the florist- Cameron, who, if you know, all of this doesn’t work out totally wants to have your babies- she told me you came in and picked out some lilies and then- sort of spilled that they were for me and then spilled everything else- but you got scared and you ran but you paid them so they were, like, obligated to deliver them? And since you didn’t leave a note, Cameron took it upon herself to, um, write one herself. And she told me- she wrote to me, I mean- that you said- that you said-“

You take a moment to sneak a look at her and- yep, still frozen, gaping like a fish (a fucking cute fish, but still- a fish) and adjust your glasses and there’s some part of your brain that is telling you to maybe take a minute and maybe breathe but your mouth doesn’t listen so you power on-

“Cameron and- and Mrs. Needleman? That’s the older woman who owns the place? She said- well, she said you might have maybe mentioned that you’re in love with me.”

And then- then silence and that frightened, open mouthed look.

It stretches for long moments. It’s unbearable.

“Do you? Do you- do you love me? Still? Or, you know, at all?”

Your words are quiet and imploring. 

And you watch as her shoulders shift, her mouth closes, and her eyes are once more focused and steadfast.

“Does it matter?”

Her words are just as quiet, her tone broken and resigned. But you stare back, just as determined, just as focused. 

“Yes. Gail, yes. Tell me. Please.”

The clock in the interrogation room is the only sound you register beside your rapid, beating heart in your ears.

“I-“

You can hear the swallow as she takes it, see the thumping of her heavy pulse in her throat.

“I- Holly. I do. I do love you. I do. And I’m- I’m so, so-“

You watch as her face crumbles, her chest heaves, and her eyes water. The hand you’d just held in your own came to those pouting lips, covering them from your gaze.

You watch as she closes her eyes, as a tear rolls its way slowly out of the corner of her left eye.

“I’m so sorry. I have been so- I mean, I love you, I tell Dov how serious I am about you and then- then I just walk out on you and ignore you? I mean, it’s classic me but you- you made me better. I wanted to be better and I just-“

She wheezes into her hand, lets it drift up to wipe at heavy tears.

“I’m just sorry. And I’m sorry I ran away from the flower ladies- I wanted to tell you, wanted to send them- but I just got-“

“Scared.”

You find your voice the same time you find use of your limbs, your feet dragging your somewhat numb and tingling body toward her.

“You were scared because you’d waited so long and also because you thought that maybe- maybe I didn’t feel the way you did. The  
way- the way you told Mrs. Needleman you did?”

She doesn’t answer but she nods, her face downcast.

“And you were scared- that I thought it was a fling and that Lisa was right? That you weren’t good enough for me?”

Another nod. Your heart combusts when she sniffles into the heavy air. You move closer. You push harder.

“I’m really, really pissed. At you. At me. At Lisa. Because she was wrong. Horribly. And I didn’t defend you and yeah I called you but I  
knew where you were, I could have come to you. And then there’s you. Who didn’t want to talk to me. Who refused to talk to me and I haven’t wanted to love you- like, be in love with you lately, but I am so I think we just need to deal with it. So, here’s the deal: I fucking love you. A lot. And I think about you all the time and I’m pretty sure you’re the love of my life and Lisa deserves to be kicked in the tits-“

“That’s what Cameron said-“

“-and believe me, I will take care of that- but you need to tell me stuff. You need to be open with me and talk to me because these last couple of week have been hell and I almost went out on a date-“

“- what? What the actual fucking-“

“- but I got your flowers and I never really wanted to but, you know, girl I loved wouldn’t actually talk to me, so I thought- but I didn’t- so here’s the deal: you’re done with work for the next couple of days so you’re going to come over.”

“I am?”

She’s flustered and you try to ignore it but it’s cute so you find yourself almost chest to chest with her and cupping her cheek despite yourself. You don’t swoon but you let yourself let out a heavy breath at the familiar softness of her cheek.

“Yeah. You are. You’re going to come over to my house and we’re going to drink a nice bottle of Borolo that I’ve been saving for fucking ever and I’m going to cook you something healthy because you’ve probably been living on nothing but take out and we’re going to talk. About- all of this. Because I love you. And I want to do this. I don’t want Cameron to have your babies- I want-“

You adjust your glasses, feel your cheeks flush at the thought, catch her shy smirk at your state-

“I don’t want to freak you out and again with the talking and the Borolo but I want the Gail babies and you and me and I- Gail, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell Lisa to shut up and I’m sorry that you thought for a moment that you weren’t good enough for me because- you are, you’re it for me if you’ll let me be and- Gail- I’m mad at you because if this is going to work you can’t get all ‘cat in the tree’ with me but Gail-“

She’s looking at you and trying not to cry and you crack a sympathetic smirk despite your dismay because you feel it, too- feel the give and the pull and the relief and the fucking lightness at the way you begin to chip away at the impasse between you.  
“I love you and I want you and I- I’m sorry- I’m so sorry-“

But your words are gone, they’re silenced because her hands- beloved and warm and solid- are cupping your cheeks. Her eyes are locking with yours and she’s nodding before she’s closing the small distance between your lips and hers and she’s drinking you in. 

Her lips are as soft as you remember (softer, god, how did they get softer?) and her tongue twists with yours just the way you remember.

Her nose is warm against yours, hey hair still fine and choppy in between your grasping fingers after all of this time. 

You’re kissing her like it’s the end of the world and slipping your tongue into her mouth and sighing as she wraps her own around it. 

As she winds her hands around your neck, slows the kiss, and moves her hands to your cheeks, a light, reverent touch of fingers on your jaw. 

And you’re melting. You’re melting and gone and so relieved and-

Your thoughts end the minute she presses you against the glass, her mouth choking out a sob just as she tries to quell it. So, you give in and let her gasp, let her seal that trembling mouth against yours and cry out her repentance, her sorrow. You kiss her as she tells you of her regret, her distress, her wanting. You let her kiss away the pain and the hurt and the avoidance- and, and everything. You just let It go and let her heal and silence every fear you’ve ever had. Because she’s telling you, telling you in the only way she knows how, that this is it- you- you are it- and it’s the end of all the wondering and wandering and it’s so far from where you started. When it was all ‘oh my God, she’s beautiful and smart and doesn’t care what I’ve done before but who I am now but I can never have her’ to now where it’s all ‘she is all I will ever want and I almost screwed it up but she’s here and she’s soft and God this is what you’ve always wanted and she kisses me like I’m holy and I was right for once and I won’t let her go again’ and it’s- it’s so much.  
But you take it all, cupping a pale cheek and nodding with her assertions and her apologies and her repentant words and using your other arm to pull her as close as you can get her.

There are things to be said, pledges to be made and wounds to soothe. You plan to make it up to her- all of it. You plan to kiss her lips and her spine and her thighs and trace your wanting wishes against the place where you know she is wet and wanting of your touch.  
But now, now you close your stuttered kiss with a light locking of your lips with yours, your hands skirting down to your neck with a slow sort of skate before coming down to her still clenching palms and crossing your fingers with hers, delighting in the familiar fit.  
You’re only centimeters away so you can see the full scale of her smile and relief so you follow your instincts and close the gap and seal your lips over hers with a chaste kiss. A steady promise.

“Let’s- Gail- let’s go home. Let’s just-“

But you don’t have to explain, don’t have to say anything further. She nods, her eyes now wet and soft.

“Yeah, nerd. Whatever, wherever- just- yes.”

You don’t cry. You don’t.

But the handkerchief Mrs. Needleman comes in handy anyway and you dab at your eyes and sigh slightly when her full, wet lips come into contact with your temple.

The tension almost leaves you, then. Almost.

It doesn’t dissipate completely until later. Until you’re under soft sheets and a heavy frame, her bare skin sliding delightfully against your own as she slumbers and mumbles your name against your skin.

Because this is it. She is it. Despite hurtful words and stupid silences and mistaken embraces- it’s all here and in your grasp and you welcome it and her and the future and the inevitable falling that comes with being with Gail Peck. 

You fucking welcome it.  
-

Years later, her hands once more warm in yours, her face alight and hopeful and so goddamn breathless, you glace back at the woman who was probably responsible for you and your soon to be wife’s reconciliation. The woman who looked at you and challenged you to be better and to choose what made you happy. The woman who had forced your hand and almost shoved you in the direction that eventually lead you home. You meet her eyes and try to tell her- try to tell her-

But you’re blank because Gail is waiting and so is everyone else you’ve ever cared about so you settle with Mrs. Needlema’s gaze and dpeak the words that will forever seal you to the woman in front of you. The woman who you know you’re supposed to love, to need, to desire, for the rest of you life.

There is distant applause. Whistles and sniffling mothers and friends and countless others – but all you can see is her. Her and tumbling blonde hair and bright blue eyes heavy with tears and promises and ‘I will never leave you’s’ and so you kiss her, mindless of whether or not you have been given permission because you can do nothing else. You can do nothing else but kiss her and grasp her to you and love her and goddammit if this doesn’t feel like the biggest moment of your life because it is and you love her and Jesus Christ, finally. Finally.

At the reception, Cameron feigns a grimace as she fills the hall with lilies and daffodils and violets and whatever she pleases. She chides you both about your inability to recognize her agony at both of you being taken off the market. Sher calls it inhumane; you take pity and introduce her to cousin Hailey. You think that Cameron leaves smiling. You know you see her at the next family Christmas.  
You look into your wife’s eyes and you see stars. You see stars and the furute and a lifetime of let me’s and what do you want to wats and I will never leave you’s- and you know it’s not just now that you will think this. Not just at the wedding reception you were basically forced to have, not just when you were wrapped up in warmth and love and promises- but for forever. For as long as she’ll have you and want you and lay you down beside her, safe and warm and home.

Because this is what you chose. This is what you walked into the day you got those flowers and made a decision and chose to chase the woman you knew you were meant to know and lay with for the rest of your life.

And the music is lovely and the people, the people you haven chose to surround you on the best day of your life, but they do not compare to woman in front of you who is smiling at you and then rest her head where it fits perfectly in the crook of your neck and all you can do is breathe and close your eyes and think of the beginning, the end, and then the beginning once more.  
She speaks softly into your ear, her words more soothing, more melodic than the music that plays softly behind you.

“You got me flowers,” she says. Her lips brushing your ears.

You sigh. You say, “I did.”

You tighten your arms around the lace of her waist and sway with her as best you can.

She shudders when your fingers start soothing circles at her waist.

“I’m- I’m glad.”

A soft stop start of a laugh before you sink into her further, your chin settling upon her shoulder.

“Yeah, me, too.”

And then it’s quiet except for the stuttering of your breath and the beat of her heart loud even in your own ears and the murmurs of those you know speaking of your dance and your promises to one another. 

It’s quiet.


End file.
